Trying
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Bobby figures out how much Jack needs him the hard way. No slash. Please read and review.


A/N: So this is going to be my first ongoing FB fic.

Please read and review! Thanks.

Theme Song: **"Breathe Me" by Sia**.

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_Part 1_

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Bobby returned to Detroit on probation in the fall of Jack's 16th year. At 23, the second Mercer boy had spent a total three years doing time, and his family hadn't seen enough of him. Angel, nineteen, held a job he never talked about and still slept in their mom's house, knowing Jack needed someone there besides her. Jerry was 25 and working at some shit factory, always talking about pushing for better wages. They all missed Bobby, especially Jack. When he came back for the last time before Evelyn's funeral, Bobby would find out just how much Jack needed him.

It was a Tuesday, 11 o'clock. Evelyn was working, and instead of school, Jack was pacing around in their living room, on the verge of a panic attack. He couldn't find the money he'd been keeping to pay off the classmate who sold him coke. Tomorrow was pay day, and for sixty bucks, Jack was in for an ass-whuppin'.

He ran his hand through his hair, breathing hard. He had torn up his room – which had once belonged to both him and Bobby – but hadn't found shit. Not a penny. This wasn't just about getting beat. Not paying was like a stain on his reputation as a buyer. They'd charge him more or not do business with him at all if he had a history like this. Shit. Shit.

He jerked around when he heard the doors swing back and forth. Who the fuck?

"Hey, little brother."

"Holy shit."

Bobby. He hadn't seen Bobby in two fucking years. The elder Mercer boy had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his hair slicked back and his jacket unfamiliar.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jack said.

"I get back from the jailhouse and that's the welcome I get?" said his brother. "Come on, man, gimme a damn hug."

Bobby pulled Jack to him, and Jack held on for an extra minute or two. Bobby could feel him clinging and let him cling.

"God," Jack exhaled. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Around, fairy. Around."

Jack let the nickname go. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed his brother. He didn't want to let go; he was afraid Bobby would leave again.

"You miss me?" Bobby asked softly.

"Yeah," Jack whispered. "Fuck yeah."

He squeezed, shut his eyes, smelled his brother's scent that hadn't changed – cheap cologne and smoke and a comforting dirtiness. Bobby let himself hold on too, suddenly given that purity he only found in his baby brother, regardless of Jack's lifestyle. Bobby always saw a softness there, a need to be looked after, a need for protection. Jack was the one person who needed him, and coming through on all those needs fulfilled Bobby like nothing else.

Guilt suddenly pushed against his chest with an uncomfortable pressure. The last time he left, Jack had barely been 14. Sometimes, Bobby forgot just how young his brother was. It kept slipping from his mind – just how fragile Jack was. His brother had always and would always need him this way, as a shield, a shroud of tender defense. Why had Bobby gone at all? This boy _needed_ him.

"Listen," he said, breaking away just enough to look into Jack's eyes. "I'm sorry I been gone so long and that I never wrote you or somethin'. But I'm here now, and I don't plan on leaving until you don't need me anymore."

Jack gave a weak smile. He wanted to tell Bobby he'd always need him, but he just smiled. His older brother searched his eyes for a moment that passed in silence and drawn out intimacy. Jack waited for him to find whatever it was he was looking for, allowing himself to stay open. He was still holding onto Bobby, and Bobby still had one arm bent around him, his other hand resting in his hair.

Bobby could see – something had changed. And not for the better. But he decided not to bring it up just now. He pulled Jack back to him again for a moment, before letting go completely and picking up his duffel bag that he had left rest on the floor.

"What are you doing home anyway? Don't you have school or somethin'?" the elder brother asked.

"Yeah – I – had to stay to find something."

"What?"

"Um – money."

"Money, huh? What for?"

Jack shrugged, hoping his guilt didn't show. "Nothin'. But money is money, you know?"

"Yeah – never good to lose money. So did you find it?"

"Not yet," Jack said worriedly. "I've been lookin' like a crazy person. No luck."

"How much?"

"Sixty."

"Sixty? Not bad, little bro."

Jack sat downstairs on the couch, while Bobby showered. He breathed slowly and deliberately, resisting the impulse to keep searching. He knew he wouldn't find the money. Now he had to figure out what to do without it. He could leave town, kill himself, hide out for years. He indulged in all of these extremities, but he knew in the end he had no choice but to face the consequences. One thing he _wouldn't_ be doing was telling anyone.

He went into the kitchen and got on the phone with one of his cohorts, murmuring low about getting picked up.

"Bobby?" he called from outside the bathroom door, once he had hung up downstairs.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going out. I'll be back later around three."

"Where you goin'?"

"Nowhere. I'll see you later."

"Jack! Don't just go out there by yourself without tellin' anyone where you're going!"

"I've been doin' it for years, man. You just haven't been around."

Jack walked away, and Bobby stood in the shower, realizing Jack was absolutely right. He'd been gone too long. Jack was growing up, and he was missing out.

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Three streets away from the house, Jack got into his friend Joe's car, and they sped away toward the west. Joe was a year older, a drug dealer who had never made it past the ninth grade. Jack always had trouble ignoring his lip ring.

"So wa'sup, boy?" Joe asked, as they cruised down the road.

"I need money."

Joe laughed. "How did I know? Shit, man. Do you ever have another reason for seeing me?"

"Dude, I owe Chuck sixty bucks, and tomorrow's pay day. I swear to God I had it yesterday, but now I can't find it."

"Shit, Jack! Chuck's money? You're fucked."

"You gotta help me, man. Come on!" Jack said desperately.

"I can't, Jack."

"Come on, Joe, you _know_ I'm good for it."

"Jack, I already owe Sweet money that I don't even have. No lie. I can't afford to hand out loans right now."

"Joe, please. You know Chuck. You know he'll beat the shit out of me. Please, Joe. I swear to God, I'll pay you back on time. I've never lost track of money until now, you know that."

"I'm sorry, Jack. I can't."

They shared a locked gaze.

"I can't."

* * *

The sun was already disappearing, and Jack still hadn't stopped walking. He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and scraped along, keeping his head down. He was late. By now, he predicted, Evelyn was home and Bobby was severely worked up. They had probably already called Jerry and Angel, the neighbors, and God help him – the cops. Well, maybe not. Cops were always a last resort in the Mercer house.

He had needed to just think, try to plan, prepare himself for his impending doom. He wasn't Bobby. He wasn't even Angel or Jerry. He couldn't kick ass first, explain later. He was afraid and weaker than most gangsters around here, skinny and jumpy in the face of danger. He didn't have any real weapons, no switch knives or hand guns. He trembled and he clamped up. He let people beat on him because it's what he'd been taught to do since the day he was born up until arriving at the Mercers.

He tried. He tried to brace himself emotionally for what he knew would happen tomorrow. He tried to tell himself that it wouldn't last, that it wouldn't be unbearable. He tried to tell himself that it would be okay, that he wouldn't even had to go to the hospital. He tried to picture a few punches, some kicks, painful but decent.

"Be a man, damn it," he muttered to himself. "You got yourself into this. You're not a little kid."

He turned a corner and realized that he wasn't too far from home. The last shades of twilight were fading. They would turn on the streetlights soon. He better hurry before it got dark and the gangs really did start to act up.

God damn Joe. And who the hell was Sweet, anyway? Joe had made the name sound huge. Whoever it was couldn't be worse than Chuck. Chuck was going to kick Jack's ass...

"Shit," the teenager said aloud, his house coming into view. Sure enough, the windows were bright and Jerry's car was parked out front. Mom's must've been in the driveway, next to Bobby's. Jack sighed as he crossed over to the house's curb, anticipating the bitch-fest that was bound to ensue. He looked at this watch, approaching the steps. 6:30. He'd been gone since noon. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't called.

The first door squeaked, as he stepped onto the porch. Everyone inside perked up. Jack eased the house's front door open tentatively, unsure what he would find. He met Evelyn's gaze first. She stood in the kitchen, Jerry looming behind her. Angel was sitting at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him.

"Jack!" she said breathlessly, rushing to him and grabbing him in a hug. "Oh, I'm so glad you're all right. Where were you? Why didn't you call?"

Jack tried to answer, but Bobby cut him off, appearing from living room and looking like a cat in a sour mood. He got right into Jack's face, forcing Evelyn to back away, and launched off before anyone else could stop him.

"GOD DAMN IT, JACK MERCER! WHERE THE **FUCK** HAVE YOU BEEN? DO YOU KNOW WHAT **FUCKING** TIME IT IS? DO YOU HAVE ANY **FUCKING** IDEA WHAT YOU PUT US THROUGH? WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?"

Jack blinked fast, feeling that stuttering sensation, as Bobby's eyes burned into his. He voice had been reduced to shaky noises. He clenched and rubbed and unclenched his hands.

"MA'S BEEN FUCKING CRAZY OVER YOU! WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? YOU'RE SIXTEEN FUCKING YEARS OLD! THIS IS DETROIT! IT'S FUCKING DARK! AND YOU FUCKING WALKED HOME, DIDN'T YOU? JESUS CHRIST, JACK. I WANNA FUCKING KILL YOU!"

"DON'T FUCKING LECTURE ME!" Jack screamed. Bobby couldn't even manage a sizzle of more anger, he was so surprised. Jack had never yelled at him before.

"YOU'RE NOT MY FUCKING FATHER. YOU'RE NO ONE. YOU LEAVE FOR TWO YEARS AND THEN YOU WANT TO COME HOME AND FUCKING YELL AT ME? WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? WHERE THE **FUCK** WERE YOU WHEN YOU NEEDED TO BE HERE? YOU DON'T KNOW NOTHIN'!"

No one else knew what to say, shocked into disbelief.

"FUCK YOU," said Jack, his heart throbbing so hard against his chest that he could feel it bruise. His eyes stung, and his throat hurt. He didn't see the helpless stares his other brothers gave him – or the misty eyes of his mother. All he saw was Bobby. No one in this house knew what was going on, and it pissed Jack off. It pissed him off that Bobby didn't know what the hell was going on with him. It pissed him off that his brother had found something more important to do with his life, something more important than their family.

Jack turned and headed back out the door, no idea why or where he was going. Pure impulse seared through him.

"Jack Mercer! Don't you fucking walk out on me," Bobby warned.

"Fuck, Bobby. I'm just following your example."

The porch door bounced audibly after the teen, and he jogged down the steps into the street. His stomach grumbled. The sky was black, and his pockets were empty. He would give anything for a hit.

He wondered, as he got farther and farther from the house, why some familiar car wasn't following him. He looked over his shoulder more than once but found no sign of anything. Great. No one fucking cared he had left. No one fucking cared that he was going to get his ass kicked tomorrow afternoon, because no one even fuckin' knew.

He sighed and flipped his head up just enough to roll his eyes into a starless universe. It had felt so good to yell. It had felt so good to finally be the one screaming. It had felt so good to tell the fucking truth and be the one to silence people.

What didn't feel good was this solitude. He shut his eyes. The air was chilly against his face. His stomach complained of hunger again. He wondered where he would sleep. He knew he couldn't go back home tonight and embarrass himself. Fuck. All this for cocaine. All this because he couldn't keep track of his own damn money.

He started hearing some song in his head, started humming to it, strolling to it. His body found small comfort in the tune. He decided to turn into a tight alley, just as Bobby's car passed by. He knew he was risking too much, but the despair sunk him down into the grass, deep into the alley, and he curled up, deciding to give up.


End file.
